Cowboys and princesoffered their livesthe cult of the deadworshipped there toolacking in valueit saw only faces

The page was a room,a picnic, a heaventhe utopia of wordsin a region of want

The page was a bride groom,a bride and a lover,the child of the unionof religion and anarchy

“I will reflect it,” the pagesaid on Sunday“I will absorb it,”the page meant to add

Between death and rebirththe page stood waitingwords came to callspeechless at best

Chernoff, the author of over a dozen books of poetry and fiction (including a previous Apogee publication, Among the Names), works a poetry written as political both through how it talks about politics itself, as well as history, and how it works through the language. All writing is political, someone once wrote, and Chernoff’s is no different, but for the fact that it is deliberately so, but with such a light and knowing touch that its power comes through subtle means, instead of through direct force.

And Words For“Our human logic and our language do not inany way correspond to time.”—ALEXSANDR VVEDENSKY